Sort of an open letter to India

I have this extraordinary habit of having insomnia whenever I go heavy on drinks and guess what, this is one of those nights (or days, kind of lost right now). I found myself up and ready to hustle at 4AM. And the realization of time was as painful as the alarm clocks are in the morning. Well, you get the picture – pain in the arse. The stream of thoughts at night are quiet entertaining, though. To say it softly… I found myself in the making of newfangled terms for the Lithu-American dictionary and sharing this verbal crap with my girl gang over the group chat. I hope it didn’t wake them up. No, actually I don’t care, the word is really worth of waking up for. And yes, I do have girl friends now. Everyone tends to categorize (even this statement has categorization motifs in it) people and I kind of fall into the segment I am not too proud of – a mate who never writes first. This tag sucks and I am afraid it describes me as a fucking lousy friend to just anyone, so to speak. I could probably throw in some promises to you that would be related to changes in actions, but you know that I am a person of a habit. You know that very well, actually, because you were the very one who was grammar-nazi-ing my ‘the’s and ‘a’s and look at this letter now – still don’t get a difference. I won’t be promising you changes, maybe once in a while I will write a manifesto as such, but not because you’re not worthy of the change, but I just don’t believe in such methods of friendship maintenance. Not keeping in touch has its own mysterious narratives, leaving me often to find myself remniscening about the good old days we had almost 2 years ago, now. Fuck… Two years, huh? I think I even gained a wrinkle or too. So, I do remember you, like a lot. Even if I don’t announce it personally. And if that was an essay, this would probably be its thesis statement. Cool beans?

After having a marathon of the Internet and its darkest, deepest corners I decided to try falling asleep, but insomnia is a heartless bitch. I just had this urge of writing a letter to you and couldn’t shut my brain, therefore I blame you if my heart fails. Here I am at 8AM (rhyme is not a crime) with my laptop in my bed (sad story), trying to encapsulate all the good stuff we ever have been through in few sentences but just keep failing the job. You taking care of me – health, cooking food, making the best fucking ice coffee ever or just patting my back whenever I had my most depressive moments – all of it comes back as heart-warming fragments of the time interval we shared. FYI: I developed serious iced coffee addiction after this. I remember, me coming up to you and asking to leave the city, for the reason that I just wanted to have a wanna-be runaway from the various shit. You unwaveringly agreed. Me making you wear VANS or dragging to funny places (corsica studos) or forcing Harry Potter (can’t believe this bitch doesn’t like it) upon you – all of it was really hilarious. Except Hachi: A Dog’s Tale. Hachiko was heavy stuff and even the beauty of Richard Gere didn’t make it less sad. 12 inch subway sandwich [dauuumn] was consumed as if it was nothing – that’s how upsetting it was. Cried a river, literary. Oh, and thanks for all the books you left behind, I am trying to cope up with the huge pile, yet I tend to go back to the abusive relationship with Murakami’s writings. Bloody bastard, but I do fancy him a little, even gave up on the idea of burning the collection. Well, bitch, I really really miss you and am happy for you – going to get married soon and working for Elle India, I mean even adopting – pure amazeballs of philanthropy. But I selfishly wish for you to be my neighbor once more. One more time wake you up and see your bizarre morning face or go eat some cakes with tea, just any girly bullshit would do. For fuck’s sake we event went to Spanish classes together so that we could swear and call each other names. Tell me that’s not epic!?

Finally, I want to say that i quit smoking. Chain smoker like me? Hell yes! And that would probably be the conclusion. Habits or getting rid of them, apparently, is as easy as prostitutes (get the hidden message?)